


Shadows of the Lamb

by Ronney



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Master/Pet, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronney/pseuds/Ronney
Summary: Ursula Deline isn't given a second thought by most of her temporary students or longstanding peers beneath the Slaughtered Lamb. But that doesn't mean she's escaped the notice of everyone passing through.
Relationships: Ursula Deline/Original Character
Kudos: 4





	Shadows of the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote twenty pages about an NPC with no lore getting fucked by Not A Nathrezim but I did. I may have conceived the idea while leveling a Warlock in Classic, but I wrote this an embarrassingly long time ago and honestly can't recall any longer. Nor do I recall where this was supposed to go, as it certainly alludes to a continuation. Maybe someday it'll come to me. In the meanwhile enjoy it as a stand alone piece of femslash that leans heavily into its indulgences.

In the still, cold dark Ursula Deline descends the carved stairs below the Slaughtered Lamb. The gently winding path unfolds darkly before her, yet she navigates its spiral with little more than a hand on the wall for guidance. For years she has served neophytes and the nascent of her particular craft as they filter in from across the Eastern Kingdoms, ascending and descending these same steps till their spacing was burned into her memory more detailed than the face of her own mother -- a bit of darkness wouldn’t make any difference to her.

It had been an uneventful evening, with her time primarily invested in her books and fleeting, infrequent use of the laboratory that served more to startle doe-eyed apprentices with its wicked glasswork and gnarled, clawing features that certainly conjured effectively to mind the demons that every warlock cavorted with and, ultimately, dominated or was dominated by. This last reflection causes Ursula to pause for a moment, her jaw tightening unseen in the dark before her step resumes.

As the lazy twist of the stairwell reaches the end of its thrust a humble glow of torchlight swells out against the blackness. The steps even out and Ursula moves into a sort of low, gothic antechamber more mausoleum than sanctuary of the demonic, sparsely but adequately lit by an almost absent scattering of torches occupying the sconces in spartan quantity. One was queerly low to the floor in a corner, half-obstructed by the shattered remnants of an upended coffin, as if the great hunk of wood had been violently hurled into the corner and splintered on impact. She heads to her right, proceeding unbothered through arrangements of bones on queer shelves on the wall and more displaced coffins, humorously effective deterrents should curious citizens wander too far into the back of the Lamb - with the Scourge still so fresh in everyone’s mind most people would balk at the sight of upset graves and errant bones, reminders of how recently the dead had savaged the land en masse.

Her path takes her through more stairwells and stairways, many of them of a more practical size and orientation, but Gakin had so wanted to remake the entrance to their lair claiming it would be more defensible should the time ever come, but all his cohorts knew it was simple peacocking vanity. Still, the man had earned some vain eccentricities, she supposed. 

Ursula navigates the small pseudo-labyrinth of stairs and corridors without thinking, the gauche scattering of cadaverous decoration and jarring placement of light sources giving way to uniform, practical sconces and more aesthetic additions to the walls with portraits of past members of their loosely affiliated order, portraits whose number had increased significantly following the Legion’s third invasion. Ursula reflects bitterly at how many were lost in combat and how many were lost to the thrall of the Fel, mastered by the power rather than mastering it for themselves. Though, with her current situation could she really pass judgment?   
The stone gives way to a long stripe of carpeting before she reaches a small, private library in a far corner of the repurposed catacombs, one of her only luxuries her years of service had afforded her. The warlock steps through the doorway and waves a hand, the sconces in the room igniting with conjured flame, and shuts the door behind herself.

“You certainly took your time,” a dusky, female voice intones from every direction, “I was beginning to wonder if I wasn’t going to have to... _ compel _ you.” A chuckle sounds from the shadows of the bookshelves, twisting the usually steely nerved warlock’s heart.

“I was placed on the last watch tonight, and don’t pretend like you didn’t know, Kitm-”   
“Don’t say the name!” the voice hisses sharply, and Ursula feels a burning pressure around her throat, causing her to wince as her air is pinched shallow.

From behind a bookcase, rather than within the shadows as one would expect, a woman emerges, her movements of a coy and light carriage that the sour expression twisted across her regal features is jarringly at odds with. Her body was clad in a simple violet robe, the material thin and luxuriant enough that it created a fair impression of her willowy shape beneath it. Her nose was aqualine and somewhat large, but with the queenly set of her cheekbones and jaw it was a handsome feature rather than an off-putting one. But it was her eyes that always drew Ursula’s attention, a peculiar shade of burnt umber and gleaming with an almost seductive cunning and intelligence. Something about those eyes had disarmed her, rather than put her on guard, a fact that still needled at the warlock as she tried to fathom just what kind of magic would affect her so subtly, and how an unknown of the craft would’ve come to possess it.

“Letting your thoughts run away with you?” the other woman teases with a sultriness at odds with her previous outburst.

“Not at all, Cinnabar. I was simply lost in your eyes.”

Cinnabar laughs, the sound sweet and musical, deceptively girlish.

“Forgive my distracting you. Let’s bring you back to the present, though, so we can talk.”   
Cinnabar gestures with a hand, and Ursula’s robes dissolve in a gout of green flame as her arms pull together behind her back. Fel bindings pinch her elbows tightly together, while additional restraints affix to her thighs and attach to her wrists, locking them to her hamstrings and binding her from any gesture casting. Her smallclothes remain, but as Cinnabar surveys the sight of her the warlock has a feeling that they won’t for long.

“Hmmm, this is a good place to start, but I think there’s room to improve. What do you think, slut?”   
Ursula feels a tension coil in her jaw as the word comes, her hands clenching into fists uselessly behind her, but she wills herself to relax and acquiesces to the humiliating play.

“This slut thinks she could be more pleasing to you, Mistress Cinnabar.” She almost growls out, the last two words almost driving the warlock to spit them, though she keeps herself in check.

Cinnabar’s eyes smolder with cruel delight at the submission, an arm crossing under her chest to support her elbow as she props her chin in her palm, languorously taking in the sight before her. Ursula was a woman of mostly humble figure, only her backside being anywhere close to something to brag about, and her smallclothes were nothing one would find on a ravishing mistress or classy whore. But for Cinnabar, it was the submission, the powerlessness that captivated her.

“The slut is correct.” Cinnabar says with a flutter of laughter. She gestures again, and all of Ursula’s remaining covering vanishes in the same lick of green flame, leaving her naked save for the restraints and a collar with an O-ring around her throat.

The collar was what frustrated the warlock the most. While the tryst was consensual, the gravity it had taken was something Ursula was still coming to terms with, and she didn’t wonder if she wasn’t compelled by the same magic that had initially disarmed her to agree to wearing it even under an invisibility charm.

This was hardly the first time she had been naked in the other woman’s presence, but the sheer vulnerability was taxing, and exacerbated every awareness she otherwise regularly dismissed of her own figure. Ursula was not an unattractive woman, but what features she had were products of breeding rather than effort, all of her work invested in the arts of magic rather than feeding her vanity (more than she already did, at least). Her skin was soft and pale, her stomach not quite flat but soft instead, holding just enough weight to gently fold in the middle. Her breasts were small in spite of this softness, and compared to her full thighs and somewhat large backside she felt they were left wanting. Her cunt was trimmed but not hairless, groomed enough to feel clean without taking away from her work, with faintly chubby folds and a clitoris that she felt naturally protruded more than average even when she was unexcited, which was most of the time. But the way Cinnabar looked at her naked, ravening and greedy, was almost more than she could bear, making her wrestle with doubts that anyone could find her aging, mediocre figure so desirable. 

Suddenly more self-conscious than she could bear beneath Cinnabar’s unrelenting stare Ursula moves to try and cover herself, her limbs pulling fruitlessly against the conjured bindings with a tinkle of light metal and a groan of supple leather. Cinnabar smirks and leans her head into her palm just a bit more.

“Is this more comfortable for my slut?”   
“Yes...Mistress Cinnabar.”   
“Good, now come over here. You need to debrief.”   
Cinnabar draws a stool over with another hand, taking a seat on it with her thighs parted shoulder width. Ursula approaches almost reluctantly, her chin lowered and her eyes on the floor. She comes around to the side of Cinnabar’s legs, and bends herself over them. She struggles with her hands a few moments, trying to find a position that she feels won’t be considered blocking view of her ass from Cinnabar, the repeating chime of the metal over the sultry creak of her bindings coursing a shiver up her spine.

Cinnabar makes her lay there without attention or comment for several moments, the silence gaining weight till it hung over Ursula like a force descending upon her, coiling a sense of tension in her that releases with a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she at last feels a hand gliding over her backside.

“Did anything happen today?” Cinnabar asks conversationally as she begins to squeeze and grope Ursula’s cheeks in alternation.

“No, Mistress Cinnabar. My day was largely spent reading and updating my notes, and I found little reason to test any of the information I took down.”

Her reply is punctuated by a sudden, harsh smack to her ass, the clap of the report filling the otherwise silent library. Ursula groans out, mostly in pain, but grits her teeth and forces herself to quiet down.

“What about new prospects? Did anyone that stood out wander through the Lamb?”   
“No, Mistress Cinnabar.”

Another slap, this time to the other cheek, and even harder than before. The warlock grunts through her clenched jaws, but she doesn’t waste effort trying to guard her backside. She’d already made that mistake once.

“Are you sure, Slut?”   
Another slap.

“Nnnfff.”   
“What was that?”   
_ Slap _ .

“Y-yes, Mistress Cinnabar.”

_ Slap. _

“Are you sure?”

_ Slap.  _

__ “Ye-”

_ Slap! _ _   
_ __ “I wasn’t finished, Slut. Don’t forget your place.”

**_Slap!_ **

Ursula groans, her restraints sounding their dark music as her body naturally spasms beneath the last shattering blow. Her cheeks glow from the barrage of strikes that steadily impress her Mistress’ hand into them. Her backside was sustaining a steady burn, but as the sensation continued to simmer in her flesh her brain began to interpret it more and more as pleasure, particularly as Cinnabar pauses to observe her work with Ursula’s ass so far and hums in approval at how it was beginning to color.

“Do you remember the description I gave you, Slut? Blonde hair, green eyes, freckles and a distinct Westfall accent. She should have departed for Stormwind weeks ago, and you’re telling me that even with the letter that fool Gakin sent she still hasn’t wandered through?”   
“W-well…” she begins, interrupted by a harsh strike to her backside. By now the sensation was an equal diffusion of pain and pleasure, the steady burn elevating every touch to her battered rump into a blurred transcendence.

“Well?”   
“There was a girl today! It might be her!” She blurts out almost desperately, realizing that, as much as she wanted to please Cinnabar, she wanted further punishment. The realization makes divulging this information almost difficult, something that confuses and almost unnerves Ursula as it settles in her consciousness.

“ _ Might _ be her?” Cinnabar repeats, giving one of Ursula’s reddened cheeks a hard squeeze.

“Yes, might! I didn’t speak to her myself, Mistress Cinnabar. She went directly to Gakin, and then to Thornberry. I only caught pieces of her conversation, but I think the accent was right.” She shudders, struggling to maintain a steady cadence as she feels Cinnabar’s nails raking across her sore rump, tracing lines through the reddened flesh that made Ursula’s toes curl.

“Do you know if she’ll be back?”

“She should be, Mistress Cinnabar. Even with the defeat of the Legion and the Harvest’s assistance, our craft is still reviled and treated with suspicion. There are only so many places she can train in the Eastern Kingdoms.” In spite of herself, Ursula whimpers as she feels her Mistress’ hand leave her rump, giving her nothing to focus on but the steady stinging of her flesh as it hangs in the stone room’s cool air.

“Good girl, slut.” Cinnabar finally says, and Ursula is startled by how much it pleases her to hear those words. 

“Th-thank you Mi-” She’s pulled up by the restraint pinning her elbows together, Cinnabar placing her on her knees and turning to face her, legs parting to allow their bodies a greater proximity. Ursula can smell Cinnabar at this distance, a smell of reagents and paper as her Mistress thoughtfully cradled and strokes her face, letting the warlock rest back on her heels to keep pressure on her sore, smarting rump.

“Stand up.”   
Ursula stands, finding it somewhat awkward without the use of her hands.

Cinnabar’s hands begin to cross her body, sliding across her bare stomach tracing the crease where it began to fold, caressing her love handles like a treasure before they slide up and cup her passable breasts, considering them anything but as they began to stroke and squeeze. Ursula struggles to keep herself quiet, but betrays small whines and the faintest chime of delicately colliding metal as the rings and latches of her restraints impact with small jolts she can’t quite contain.

“Let’s wrap you up like a present.” It’s all Cinnabar says as her hands begin to explore again, suddenly holding a thin, tightly coiled cord that begins to lay into Ursula’s skin like the lines on a map. With her arms already otherwise occupied, Cinnabar focuses on Ursula’s torso, laying a tight framework against her skin. The warlock can’t deny an appeal to the bite of the cord against her flesh, growing tighter and tighter. It winds across her laterally first, beginning at her stomach in a way that will draw emphasis to the middling pudge collected in Ursula’s core over the years, and she squirms in sudden, self-conscious protest.

“ _ Stop.” _ Cinnabar hisses sharply in her ear, biting the lobe to punctuate the command. 

Ursula groans, and goes still.

“Good girl.” She says with a lick to the side of the warlock’s neck as she resumes. She proceeds, arranging the first cord around Ursula’s stomach, then composes a placeholder knot to move on to the next piece. This one snakes under the warlock’s breasts, firmly embedding itself beneath the slope of her bust so that as the tension rises, it will pull up into her breasts from beneath, increasing the stimulation and the pressure. As the cord winds around Ursula’s body again and again she struggles to keep still, every brush of its surface against her skin threatening to elicit a shudder as she feels her freedom further stripped away, loop by loop. Cinnabar begins to weave the cord over and under her chest, through her sternum, forming an X shape that cradles her chest, reinforcing the constriction below while building the force against her chest making every breath suddenly not more difficult, but more purposeful, something she keenly experiences as her lungs expand into the pinch of her bindings. A last sequence of revolutions begins to spool over the Warlock’s chest, forming her breasts into teardrop shapes between the gentle press binding them.

With her arrangement of knots and angles completed Cinnabar takes a moment to glide her hands across her handiwork, both material and flesh, sampling how the two shifted through and into each other, working in tandem rather than separately to create one decadent whole of the middle-aged woman she’d used as a canvas. Ursula struggles to keep her breathing even, but it comes deeply in spite of herself, her excitement almost unchecked and her composure all but crumbled. Cinnabar cradles the Warlock’s cheeks in one hand, drinking in the sight of her flustered, panting face. After some moments she releases Ursula’s chin, and lightly explores between her legs with a finger, only smiling as the woman moans out and her fingers are greeted by a sodden warmth.

“A striking reaction from one of the prestigious trainers of the Slaughtered Lamb.” She muses, bringing her dampened middle finger to her lips and licking it clean indolently. “It seems indignity suits you, Slut. Would you agree?” Cinnabar arrests her plaything’s gaze, her sharp, umber eyes wordlessly demanding an answer.

“Ah...y-y...yes, Mistress Cinnabar.” Ursula quivers in response, swallowing her dignity in a rush of guilt-ridden excitement.    
“You’re just a slut pretending at grandeur, yes? You enjoy the reverence, however begrudging, of your pupils and the small privileges your station has allowed, but beneath it all this is what you want. To be used, made in another’s image and then broken down to nothing.”   
Ursula licks her lips as her pride seizes up again, compelling a sharp retort she narrowly bites down. Cinnabar responds to this hesitation with a slap to the woman’s pussy, light and pulled but plenty to be felt with her sensitivity so amplified. Ursula groans out and almost doubles over, and her Mistress’ hand pulls away with a damp spot.

“Yes, Mistress Cinnabar!”   
“Yes, what?”   
“Yes, I’m a slut! Just a thing to be used and broken as others desire! So please, use me to your heart’s content!” 

The confession was shattering, leaving the warlock feeling so terribly small and vulnerable she shrinks in on her herself, her shoulders slouching and pulling together. Cinnabar notices the shift in posture and strokes Ursula’s hair once, cooing in an almost motherly fashion.

“Oh come come, no need to feel so ashamed. It’s simply part of who you are. We all have our dirty secrets.” She gives one cheek a harsh pat, eliciting a slight wince from the bound woman before she steps around to her back, and begins to pull the ropes together. 

Ursula gasps as she feels everything constrict at once, the pattern woven across her skin squeezing it with a pressure that was at once both uncomfortable and comforting, cinching her further into immobility, further under Cinnabar’s influence and whim. She shudders at the gentle, groaning whisper of the layers of cord straining and shifting against each other as they press into her skin. Her breasts begin to raise with the building tension, the cord slowly elevating them, then pinching them from all sides as her chest and sternum are subject to escalating compression. Every tug, every pull that tightens the all-encompassing grip on her body causes a small sigh, a gasp, a groan. 

Cinnabar remains unaffected by the display, unhurried in her gradual application of building restraint until everything has been arranged to her satisfaction. When everything has been tightened to her approval she ties the two disparate lengths of cord together, forming them into one more knot with a lead trailing out from it almost like a leash, joined at the middle of Ursula’s back and forcing her into a proud, erect posture at odds with the thrilling humiliation in which she was mired. She can’t help but whimper as Cinnabar walks around once more to her front, lazily dangling the primary cord in her grasp like a leash, like a lever that would, at a tug, further restrain her, further restrict her agency leaving her even more in the other woman’s control and mercy.

“Stand.” She says.

Ursula stands, her head bowing and turning aside as if to hide her face in embarrassment and shame as a small spot on the floor is revealed, the inside of her thighs glistening faintly in the dim torch light.

Cinnabar offers an indulgent smile, and draws the tip of her index finger along the inside of Ursula’s thigh, gathering the fluid dewed across her skin; she brings it to her lips, and daintily sucks the tip clean.

“You’re ripening.” She muses, much to Ursula’s further embarrassment, expressed as no more than a soft whine as she only just stifles a more defined, punishable response.

“Oh, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear.” Cinnabar says gently, “If anything, this is you at your most splendorous and stunning, the time to take the most pride in who and where you are.” 

Her willowy frame pressing in close as her hands glide around Ursula’s hips, the reasons lost on the warlock as she finds her neck suddenly bit and licked. Her Mistress gently transacts several measured nips and pinches with her teeth, each one sealed with a caress of her tongue as if in apology and compelled by low, throaty laughter at every squirm and sigh encouraged by the possessive teasing. Cinnabar bites and licks her way along Ursula’s jawline till she reaches the woman’s chin, suggesting it up and back with a slow straightening of her own spine, letting her height force Ursula off balance naturally and gradually. She’s kept pinned on the tips of her toes, her chin forced high and her head forced back, as Cinnabar toys at her jaw and her pelvis, and nearly topples over from a sudden burst of stimulation from between her legs as the anchor cord suddenly rubs between her lips and against her clitoris.

Ursula moans, the leather restraints groaning loudly as her arms spasm against them with a shrill chime of metal, her thighs spasming and her right foot going flat, almost rolling as her body is overwhelmed by the sudden attention. Cinnabar catches her around the shoulder and pulls her in and forward, cradling the shorter woman against her chest in an almost matronly way as she begins to tug and relax the cord, causing it to rub and press, ease its pressure, then start again.

“Rub yourself on it.” Cinnabar instructs almost lazily.   
“Y-yes, Mistress Cinnabar.” She responds, beginning to squirm her hips, rubbing herself against the cord carefully. Her excitement quickly soaks it through, and the smooth exterior spares her discomfort from her task, allowing the warlock to simply do as instructed and relish in it. Her shoulders and head slump forward at her Mistress’ encouragement, the taller woman supporting her weight affording her further focus on the cord between her legs. She whimpers and groans as it rubs her entrance, parts and rubs her folds around it, and torments her clit far more deliciously than she’d care to admit.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” Cinnabar says, idly caressing Ursula’s shoulders with her immaculately trimmed nails. “If you’re too slow I’ll grow bored, and leave you wanting. You don’t want that, do you?”   
“N-no, Mistress!” Ursula exclaims in a semi-genuine panic, dropping her hips into the cord and starting to shift them faster. The softness of her figure creases with her posture, and quivers with her rapid, desperate movement as she tries to grind out an orgasm before Cinnabar grows bored of her struggle, and leaves her to squirm for the night. Her wet cuntlips begin to squelch under her heavy, desperate breathing as her excitement soaks the length of cord through, every shift of her skin sounding damply in the small library. She begins to buck forward, trying to emphasize her clit as she feels her peak begin to near, grunting and groaning as she works with greater and greater fervor, her goal beginning to approach, practically in sight as she feels the muscles in her belly begin to tighten like a spring.

To her surprise, she’s allowed to cum, and cums hard, her cunt squeezing hard on nothin, her lips appearing to swallow the length of cord splaying them open as the contractions pull them snug around it. Ursula cries out into Cinnabar’s chest, the taller woman almost absently cradling her head with a few strokes of her hair and pats to her scalp, seeming to regard the momentous orgasm with a passing interest at best. Her thighs and hips spasm violently, her bindings groaning anew as her arms jerk tight once against their rings, futilely straining the leather yet again. The seconds this peak spans seem to Ursula as hours, perhaps days of ascending bliss, the release of pressure she hadn’t even realized she was carrying till she was at last relieved of it. The floor beneath her spatters with her satisfaction, but she hasn’t the presence of mind to feel embarrassed for it, or for anything other than the overwhelming embrace of climax as it surges through her body, arresting her mind.

Finally she comes down, spent and panting, her weight resting solely on her Mistress as everything in her body goes slack. A low, almost thoughtless groan sounds feebly in her throat, like the groan of a man regaining consciousness from a savage blow to the head - a comparison not inaccurate for how displaced, how fatigued Ursula suddenly feels, so much so she doesn’t notice herself being walked back a few steps, then lowered to her knees again. Cinnabar takes hold of her hair, and guides her face forward till it’s pressed to the stone floor and the dampness she’d left in it. She begins to rub Ursula’s face in the evidence of her peak, smearing it across her nose and cheeks and lips.

“Such a dirty little Slut. Did I say you could make a mess of things? Of course I didn’t. And you can’t even clean this up, simply shameful behavior.”

Ursula barely manages a mumbling, formless response, scarcely even registering the humiliation.

“Nor did I say you could pass out. Wake up!”   
Cinnabar jerks her upright by the hair, and slaps the warlock across the face. The impact turns her head, and brings some awareness back to her eyes.

“Forgive me, Mistress. It was just, so good, I-”

“Be quiet.”

Ursula goes silent.

“I’m going to let go of you, now. You’ll satisfy me, and then I’ll leave you here to dwell on your mistakes. Do you understand?”   
“Yes, Mistress Cinnabar.”

“Good girl.” A sweet, unkind smile crosses Cinnabar’s face as she stands up. She snaps her fingers and her own robe vanishes in a gout of green flame, exposing her lithe, dainty figure. Cinnabar was not remarkably thin or buxom, but rather plain overall, the size and perkiness of her breasts unremarkable with an average backside and thighs to match. Her stomach was flat, her limbs graceful but in a way that wasn’t immediately exciting. Her olive skin caught the almost petulant glow of the sconces and was amplified by it, granting her an almost otherworldly tone. The lips Ursula’s face is pulled up towards are darker, pillowy and full with their own excitement; the warlock can smell, almost taste it in the air as she unconsciously licks her suddenly dry lips as she’s drawn in to her final task of the evening, one that easily carried the most gravity. Above them she notes her Mistress’ excited clitoris, and as Cinnabar draws her forward like a lover for a kiss, she puckers her lips and starts there.

Cinnabar shivers at the contact, a rare lapse in her controlled demeanor, and she scritches behind one of Ursula’s ears with a finger in encouragement. Ursula gently maneuvers her lips and tongue against the sensitive bud, building its attention and applying saliva to lubricate it for more vigorous touching. After a few moments of this she’s suddenly urged lower, and unresistingly sinks down to press her tongue against her Mistress’ sex instead, lapping at the entrance with a small, expressive moan at the taste that greets her. Cinnabar does not moan, but her breathing deepens, quickens, which is signal enough that she’s enjoying herself.

Ursula’s tongue slips inside with little difficulty, greeted by a squeeze of the other woman’s walls. Her hands try to move by instinct, wanting to grab her dominant’s hips, but they catch as the rings binding them to her hamstrings collide. She barely seems to notice this as her eyes ease shut and she pushes forward eagerly, working her tongue inside of Cinnabar’s squeezing, greedy snatch, her face turning to a mess of excited juices with every hungry lap she takes. Her fingers curl into her palms as her own excitement returns, the steadily quick and heavy breathing continuing to encourage her. She almost grins in satisfaction as she feels fingers curl tightly into her hair, their nails pressing to her scalp as she compels Cinnabar towards her own release. But she isn’t so quick, allowing Ursula to try another tack.

The warlock shifts her head, working herself back up to the other woman’s clitoris, her eyes opening to stare into Cinnabar’s with an eagerness to please, a desperation for approval, as her lips wrap around her clit and begin to gently suckle. This time Cinnabar gives a small groan, and her nails press in even more tightly.

“Just like that,” she says breathlessly. “Keep going.”

Ursula’s eyes gleam with excitement, and she does as she’s told. Her tongue flicks across the excited tip captured in her lips, stroking and rubbing it as her mouth pulls and sucks, her voice rising in moans of sheer bliss as she surrenders herself entirely to Cinnabar’s service, yearning only to see her satisfied and approving. She feels Cinnabar’s thighs tighten against her shoulders, and knows she won’t have to wait long.

Cinnabar comes suddenly and with an unsurprising composure, her jaw slightly grit as she doesn’t moan, but softly sighs through the release that tremors her slender body, her every noise and gesture somehow dignified and even poised as she conducts even the height of carnal indulgence with control and sophistication; aside from her nails burying themselves in Ursula’s scalp.

She stands there violently cradling her plaything’s head for several long, wordless moments, her humble breasts rising and falling with every deep breath, her skin visibly flushed in spite of the room’s poor, moody lighting. Finally she releases Ursula, smoothing one hand back through her short, curly hair as she clears her throat.

“Acceptable. You did well, Slut. Now it’s time to retire you for the night, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Ursula quietly responds, moments before Cinnabar waves across her mouth and a gag conjures between her lips, a dark strip of leather stifling her words with a deep red ball, forcing her jaw open and partially constricting her tongue.

Cinnabar pulls Ursula up to her feet, and leads her by the now-soaked cord out of the library space, the sconces winking out as the door shuts behind them. Ursula’s stomach falls out with dread, but she doesn’t have the energy to struggle or pull back, and goes along nervously but with an appearance of cooperation. The late hour serves her well, and while it takes them several minutes to reach her sleeping quarters, they pass no one as they navigate the halls of the repurposed catacombs.

They enter her bedroom, and Cinnabar eases the door shut behind them before leading Ursula to an open space on the bedroom wall. Another gesture of her hand conjures a sturdy ring and base, and it’s all the bound, gagged warlock can do not to tremble as she realizes how her night will be spent.

Sure enough, Cinnabar tugs on the anchor cord, drawing the rest of her rope binding even tighter, before pulling it up the warlock’s front, rested snugly between her folds and against her clit. Whether the necessary length was present or conjured out of fel Ursula can’t say, but it’s drawn up to her neck and tied off to the empty ring on her collar, leaving her trapped with everything drawn tight, biting and rubbing into her skin. Cinnabar then guides her back towards the ring on the wall, and attaches her collar to it, trapping her now on her feet, unable to conjure or cast, unable to make but the slightest and most futile of movements till the other woman deems it the appropriate time to let her go. A mix of horror and excitement fills her eyes as Cinnabar gazes into them for one last time, gently patting the bound woman’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Slut, it’s only for the night. I’ll be back for you in the morning, well before any of your companions come looking for you. In the meanwhile, though, let’s make sure you don’t grow too complacent.”

She hooks her finger under the taut cord and tugs just far enough that, when she releases, it snaps back against Ursula’s body, causing her to moan into her gag as the cord reverberates with the energy released. To her shock it continues to do so, almost vibrating against her sex and clitoris, a phenomenon that carries through to the ropes cinching her breasts and compounding the renewed stimulation. What was more, it seemed to be steadily  _ building _ , growing more intense as she helplessly squirms against it, too worked up to keep still and test if perhaps it was her own movement feeding the cantrip.

“Goodnight, Slut. See you bright and early.”   
Cinnabar turns her back to the moaning, squirming woman bound to the wall, not even thinking enough of her to offer a teasing sashay of her bare hips as she opens the door and steps through, shutting it without a care and sealing Ursula in dark till the morning.


End file.
